Saving Jude
by CallieJacobs
Summary: How does Callie protect Jude from their faster father? What happens during her time in Juvie? Starts pre-pilot, but will extend through at least the first episode of the show. It explores what Callie is feeling. My first fan-fic. I really hope you enjoy it. Please leave reviews/feedback, it definitely makes me want to keep writing, and it's really helpful! -AK (Contains violence)
1. Chapter 1

One more. I only have one more. I wipe the sweat off of my forehead with the back of my arm and pick up the last grease-caked pot. I fill it with suds and plunge in my water-wrinkled hands. To my left is a stack of clean dishes drying in the drain board. Our foster father Frank throws his dishes into the sink all day, and has me wash them all at night. It took me an hour and a half this time. I scrub at the pot, willing it to get clean. No dice. I pick up the dish soap, contemplating how I will get all my homework done and still find time to sleep. Then I hear my foster father's footsteps, quick and heavy, and my stomach goes cold. I put down the soap and turn towards the doorway, dripping water, wanting to make sure I face him square on so his hands can't find purchase in my hair. His shadow enters the room before he does, and it is so tall, so big, that I find my breath catching even as I berate myself for being afraid. He steps into the doorframe, his eyes cold, his large arms crossed.

"Where's that little brother of yours?" He asks me. Four feet away, I can smell the beer on his breath. He drinks it like its water.

"Doing his homework. What do you want with him?" I say as defiantly as I can manage. The truth is, I haven't seen Jude for the last hour. I don't know what he's been doing.

"The brat made a mess when he took out the trash. And now he's going to fix it," he said simply, turning away.

"I'll do it!" My voice comes out shrilly, and I try to calm it down. "I'm done with the dishes anyway."

He turns and looks at me, his voice low.

"Did I say I wanted you to fix it?" His eyes are dangerous. "Disrespect" is high on Frank's list of things to punish for. I shut up, and mentally cross my fingers that Jude is doing his homework like I said he was. "Lying" is high on Frank's list as well.

Frank leaves the kitchen and treads down the hall toward the room I share with Jude. I quickly dry my hands on the red striped dishtowel I hate so much. Those stripes are the color of blood.

I turn to leave the kitchen and see if I can give Jude a head's up, when an angry yell cuts through the house like wildfire.

"YOU LITTLE HOMO!" There's the distinct sound of hand on flesh, and Jude cries out. I've left the kitchen before I can even process what's happening and race down the hall to find Frank towering over Jude, who's so small he could be nine years old. My heart falls as I realize why Frank is enraged. Jude is wearing one of his ex-wives little black dresses. I only have a second to take this in when Frank lifts his hand again, and heat courses through my body. I dart in front of Jude and take the force of the blow on my cheek. Frank grabs my arm and tries to lift me out of the way, but I grasp his fingers and force them backward, trying to pry out of his grip. Again and again I yell at Jude to run, to get out, but my little brother is frozen, horrified, his eyes wide with fear, for himself, for me.

Frank yells in pain as his fingers go back too far. He lifts up a foot and kicks me in the stomach, hard, so hard, and I'm falling, damn it, I'm falling, and he's turning back to Jude. The pain in my stomach is so intense I can't breathe, so I crawl towards the door, and pull myself up on the doorknob. I can hear Jude crying, the sounds of angry hands on his body, and I let my anger and adrenaline soar through me like a drug. I take off, running down the hall and into the door that connects to the garage.

_I have to distract him, _I think. _I have to do something to get him away from Jude_. My heart is beating so hard I feel like someone is playing my chest like a drum. I scan the garage for something, anything, that could help me. I'm looking for tools, a wrench, a hammer, anything, when I see the baseball bat lying next to all the sports gear. I grab it and run outside, to the only thing I know that Frank loves.

I leap towards the car, bat raised. For an instant I can see my reflection in the windshield of the Trans Am; see my face, small, scared, and angry. And then it's nothing but a rockslide of broken glass.


	2. Chapter 2

The police car is cold. So cold. I can't stop shivering. It makes my stomach hurt even more, and my nose is starting to run. It's loud too—they have the siren on. Cars pull over in front of us, parting like the Red Sea, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry that they thought I was worth putting the siren on for. Am I really that much of a national emergency?

I wish I could wipe my nose, but my hands are still cuffed behind my back. The metal is freezing. It cuts into my wrists, but the pain is just uncomfortable. What really bothers me is that they're on at all.

I tried to tell the cops about Jude, I did. I told them Frank was hitting him, that I jumped in, that he kicked me in the stomach. I even showed them the purple bruise forming on my ribs. For a minute I thought they believed me. But Frank just put on his "upset" face, and told them that he was just trying to restrain me because I was crazy and he was afraid I would hurt him.

Father of the Fucking Year.

"Where are we going?" I ask the cops. The older man just grunts. The young one looks at me.

"Where do you usually go when you commit a crime?"

My heart sinks.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three months. I have to spend three months at the Chula Vista Juvenile Detention Center. Every day is the same. If you want to survive, you follow the rules. If you don't cause trouble, the staff will like you. And if they like you, and a fight breaks out, the guards just might come save you first.

I'm despicable, I know that. But I also know how to survive.

Keep your head up, so they won't peg you for an easy target. Eyes down, because some of these girls are like dogs. Look them in the eye and you'll need a rabies shot before lunch. Say nothing to anybody.

Ever.

I pick up my tray and walk to one of the metal tables. I perch on the end of the bench—you don't want to get your legs under the table, because if someone comes after you, it'll take longer to pull yourself out. The thin blue shirt chafes against the tender places on my stomach and my arm. These wounds are taking a long time to heal, and that makes me nervous. New wounds are ten times worse when they're on top of old ones. And I know it's just a matter of time.

Lunch is grotesque of course. I read somewhere that prisons spend about a quarter per person for food every meal. I suppose it's not a bad spread for 25 cents. A little tray of water-logged turkey. A 2-inch square of cornbread. And a relatively large section of mixed vegetables. It almost makes me smile. Jude and I hated those so much growing up. We could never afford fresh vegetables, so when the frozen ones were on sale our mother would fill the freezer with those fifty-cent bags of veggies that turned into microwave mush. Jude and I would separate the jumbled assortment by type—a little pile of carrots. A little pile of peas. A little pile of corn. A little pile of onions. When our mom wasn't looking we would trade. I'd give him my carrots for his peas, even though I like the carrots better too. We both ate the corn, because it was our favorite, and we both tried to hide the onions in our napkins, because those are nobody's favorite. I spear a tiny cube of carrot on a tine of my fork. What I wouldn't give to be sharing these with him back home.

"Awww, looks like the fish isn't eating her veggies. Guess you won't be wanting this?" I whip my head around as a solidly built Latina girl with her hair in cornrows swoops her hand into my tray and takes my cornbread. The four girls flanking her start to snicker. I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything and stare at my tray. It isn't worth it.

"What's the matter, fish? We so ugly you can't look at us?" I take my tray and try to stand up, but she's too fast.

"Leave me alone," I say firmly, still not looking at her. At the corner of my eye I'm trying to scan the room, for guard, for exits.

"What'd you say to me?" The girl's face is inches from mine, I can see her fists curling at her sides. I do the only thing I can.

I drop my tray.

It works. Conversation stops. Peas, carrots, onions and corn roll everywhere. Two guards look over. One of them seems to notice that the girl next to me doesn't look exactly friendly, and starts heading our way. The girl leans over and I can feel her hot, sickly-sweet breath on my ear.

"This ain't over," she says softly. Then she backs off and motions to her friends to come with her. They move away as the guard reaches me.

"Everything all right here?" He asks, watching them walk away. I nod, but we both know I'm lying. I look down at the small ocean of steamed vegetables around my shoes as someone hands me a mop and a dustpan.

At least I'm good at cleaning up.


	3. Chapter 3

It's lights out, but I can't sleep. This room is shaped like a white cement cereal box, small and narrow but with an inexplicably high ceiling. I don't understand why they need a ceiling that high. Maybe they used to have bunk beds in this room before some law kicked in about overcrowding. I don't know. But right now, it's just me and one other girl I've barely ever spoken with, and she's fast asleep.

There's a soft light coming in from the hallway, where guards are walking up and down, peering in at the windows in our doors. It should make me feel secure, but it makes it impossible to sleep. I'll close my eyes and begin drifting off, but when I hear footsteps outside my door, my body jumps to attention and I sit up, eyes open, feeling my pulse quicken. Being afraid is exhausting. It's easier to just stay awake.

My mind turns over and over, like a car trying to start, grasping at thoughts, memories, worries. It always goes back to Jude. Where is he? How is he? Is he hurt? Is our foster father hitting him right now, or screaming horrible things at him? Did Frank kick him out altogether? What if he's alone in an even worse foster home now, and it's all my fault? What if he hates me for leaving him?

The blankets are hot and scratchy and I kick them off, turning over and trying to find a more comfortable position. A flashlight shines in through the window, and I freeze. My pajamas are twisted around and part of my stomach must be visible to whoever is looking in. When the light is gone and the footsteps move away, I grab the blanket and pull it back over me. At least it's some privacy. Some protection. I tug the blanket up over my head. _What about Jude? What protection did I leave him?_

I hope he is sleeping with that baseball bat under his bed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Get it!" "Get it!" An elbow hits me in the chest and I stumble backwards as twenty girls fight for the soccer ball that had been at my feet. Someone eventually kicks it out of the pack and they all move away like hyenas chasing a steak. I make no effort to follow. Being present for physical activity is mandatory, but I have no desire to toss myself into the fray. Instead I go over to the water fountain and take a few gulps, feeling the wind cool my sweaty forehead and play with my hair. My hair's become a slightly darker brown in the past two and a half months. Not a lot of sun-highlights in people's hair around here.

I don't even hear her come up behind me, I just feel the pain as someone grabs my ponytail and yanks me away from the fountain.

"Move, bitch." The girl with the cornrows pushes me aside, and leans over to drink some water herself. I put a hand to the back of my head, wincing, and try to back away. I'm not fast enough.

"You a pretty pathetic sight with a soccer ball. You must have learned from your mama, 'cause you kick like a girl."

I can feel my face flushing with anger. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Well you must not have had a mother, 'cause you act like you were raised in a barn."

I'm expecting the punch, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. I duck so that her second one swings over my head, and take a leaf out of Frank's playbook and kick her in the stomach. She doubles over, trying to catch her breath, and I turn and run, back to the soccer game, back to the people who can witness any attacks. She catches up to me a minute later, but she's too late. I tell the guards I'm not feeling well, and stand near them on the sidelines for the rest of the game. Her expression promises revenge later, and I know I'll pay dearly for both the comment and the kick, but I can't help feeling a small sense of victory. Of course, if I get a shiv in the side tomorrow, I'm sure that sense of victory will be short-lived in more ways than one. But I'm winning today.

Pretty soon the soccer game is over, and we're lining up for showers. The girl with the cornrows edges her way up to me and launches into a series of curses and threats. I ignore it, and loudly tell her to stop cutting people in line. The guards hear, and march her back to her spot at the end of the line, several people away from me. Her face is absolutely murderous now.

One more week. I just have to survive one more week, and I can get out of here and find Jude. I jump behind the curtain and peel off my clothes. As the hot water streams down my back, I pretend it's his warm hands giving me a hug. I wonder if he'd be proud or scared because of what I did today. I'm thinking probably both. Because really, so am I.


	4. Chapter 4

The girl with the cornrows was on her third strike, and getting caught for cutting in the shower line bumped her down a level, taking away many of her privileges and ramping up her security status. It seems so ironic to me that cutting in the showers was her third strike, when it is clearly the least of the offenses she's committed. It's like catching Al Capone for tax evasion.

Whatever. She's gotten some comeuppance, and I'm not about to complain.

As part of her change in security level, she had to spend a week on a different floor from the rest of us. It felt like having some kind of holiday, like that old story about Christmas in the trenches, where everyone shut up and put down their guns and ate chocolate and drank for a day instead of shooting at each other.

But today's my last day, and she is back. We're lining up to go to lunch, when I realize that her friends are starting to shift in line. Two have come up behind me. Another friend, and the girl herself, are dropping back from their places ahead of me. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up, and goose bumps are emerging up and down my arms as a chill runs up my spine.

Guards walk at the front and back of the line.

We're dead center.

"You're getting out today, huh? That's what we heard."

I don't know what to do. If I yell for the guards, I could have a knife in my gut before the scream leaves my lungs. If I stay quiet…well, there's probably a pretty good chance of that knife ending up in my ribs anyway.

So I do what I do best.

I say nothing.

She turns to face me. "Why you so quiet, huh?" I gasp as her two friends behind me grab my arms, my hair, knowing what's about to come.

"You was all mouth the other day when I cut in front of you in the showers." She looks me up and down, her face etched with hatred. "Lost my job privileges cause of you." I look away, not meeting her eyes, willing someone to notice their hands on me.

She looks over my shoulder, then turns away, and for a split second I think the guard has seen her, but then she's turning back, her fist connecting with my eye in an explosion of pain, and I turn away only to be hit from the other side, and then it's mayhem; all four of them kicking and punching any part of me they can reach, and I'm down, a foot in my ribs knocks the breathe out of me, and all I can do is put my arms over my face and pray that the guards will get them off of me before she can kill me as fireworks of pain explode all over my body.

It feels like forever before they're being lifted off, and even as the guards manage to get the girl with the cornrows away, her friends are still beating me like a punching bag, until finally, finally, it stops, and one of the guards, an older guy with white hair and blue eyes, is helping me get to my feet. He looks me up and down, and I can feel the split on my lip, the swelling over my eye, and I know I must look a mess. He looks at me for minute, everyone looks at me, and then he just says,

"Your social worker is here."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I want this to be as accurate as possible, so from now it will follow the show's dialogue, but only what Callie can see and hear. I've also added a couple embellishments, like what Jude says to her on the phone. Please review! I'll be updating every day, and reviews make me really happy. I'd love to know whether you think the story is still interesting now that we're in the show's territory.**

It seems strange that the buzzing sound that lets you out of the facility is the same one you hear when you go in. It feels like it should be different. Like instead of a locking sound, it should be a pleasant female voice saying "Access Granted," or, "Congratulations," or maybe just a freaking Hallelujah chorus.

It's not that I feel like celebrating. It just feels like they're saying it's the same thing, going into jail and coming out of it. Really, there's nothing more different in the world.

The sun hits my eyes so brightly, bouncing off the hoods of parked cars that I have to squint to see anything. The world feels so surreal.

Underneath the smarting pain in my ribs, I feel panic rising. I don't see Bill. He's supposed to be here. Where is he? Where is anyone?

"Callie!" A man, not Bill, rushes over to me, and his voice is far too happy for my mood and my headache.

"Callie, hi, I'm David, I work with Bill over at Child Protective Services."

What? This makes no sense. Why would they send a new case worker?

"Where's Jude? Do you know where he is?" I don't know whether to hope that he's in a new foster home so Frank can't hurt him, or to hope that he hasn't moved so that I know where to find him.

"I don't—I don't know…" David stammers, looking uncertain. Why did they send this guy? Bill would know where Jude is. Where the hell is he?

"Bill—I need to speak to him—Where's Bill, why isn't Bill here?" I ask. Something isn't right.

"We'll have to talk about that later," David says. He's not meeting me in the eye.

Oh no. No, no, no. What if they gave me a new caseworker? If Jude and I have different caseworkers…are they trying to split us up?

"I just, I don't understand why I can't talk to Jude," I press, feeling panic rising in my chest. I have to find him, I _have _to.

"Um, that's enough, I don't know what you're talking about." Now I'm sure he's hiding something. For the first time I notice that there's a woman standing nearby. I thought that they'd be putting me back with Frank. With Jude.

They really are trying to split us up. I think I might just break down and cry. If I don't have Jude, I don't have anyone.

"Callie, this is Lena. Lena, Callie."

Lena smiles at me. She's pretty, with light brown skin and unruly hair she has tied in a sort of bun on top of her head. I can't stand that smile, though; it feels so misplaced when everything is falling apart around me. I just stare at her. She doesn't look violent. I wonder if David is trying to shut me up because he's afraid she won't take me if she knows I have siblings. He's probably right. I shut up. She must notice my silence because the smile slips off her face.

David notices too. He looks at Lena. "I guess I could take her to one of the group homes."

No. Oh my God, no. Group homes are just Juvie without the protection of the guards. My injuries scream at me as I imagine them magnified once, twice, a thousand times; years of beatings ahead. My eyes fill with tears and I look at Lena, hoping desperately that she'll see how much I want her to take me home with her.

I think she does, because she says, "It's just for a few weeks, right?"

The feeling of relief rushes through me, loosening the knot in my chest. A tiny part of my brain registers the sting those words caused. But beggars can't be choosers, and I've just been given a reprieve.

_Thank you_, I try to tell her, looking in her eyes.

I think she sees it and understands, because she just takes a deep breath and says, "Okay."


	6. Chapter 6

We're silent on the road home. Lena tries to talk once or twice, asking if I'm okay, if my lip hurts. I just shrug. It's not the worse pain I've ever been in; not by a mile. I don't tell her that. Pity is useless.

When we pull into the driveway, it takes me a minute to process. The house is nice. Really nice. It's not enormous or anything, but it's big, and it actually has a yard, and a huge tree with a swing on it.

Damn. It's like something hits me in the chest all over again. Jude would love that swing.

Lena guides me in to the kitchen and I sit at the table as she takes a lasagna out of the freezer and sticks it in the oven. I think it might be a real one. Like, the kind that isn't frozen out of a box. She puts a gallon of milk out on the table and I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. How very wholesome. Lena sticks her head out of the kitchen and calls to her kids to come set the table. I should probably offer to help.

I don't.

Two Hispanic teenagers come in. They look about my age. Clearly siblings. The girl's wearing jewelry and a shirt with frilly sleeves. She's tossing a salad, but keeps looking sideways at me like I'm a potentially dangerous animal who decided to wander out of the zoo and come sit at her kitchen table. Clearly we're going to be best friends.

The boy is dressed kind of normal, and seems like he might be okay. Lena tells me that they were in the foster system too, but that they came to live with her 8 years ago and were adopted 5 years ago. Lena seems to think that I'll somehow find that information really deep and meaningful, but I can do the math. Most kids are adopted really fast if they're under age 6. They probably went in after that, so they most likely spent about two years in the foster system.

They aren't even close to my league.

At least the boy seems kind of normal. When his mom tells me all this he just says, "The foster system sucks."

True.

I look around and notice the phone on the counter. I'm trying to figure out how best to swipe it when Jesus asks me, "What happened to your face? You get in a fight?"

Nice. Way to be subtle, kid. I have no intention of answering so I'm glad when Lena steps in and says "Callie's kind of had a rough day so how about we cool it with the third degree?"

I've had enough. "Where's the bathroom?"

Lena directs me and as I walk into the next room I can hear Mariana ask, "So…where'd she come from?"

I wonder what Lena will tell her. The truth, probably. They seem kind of touchy-feely that way. But whatever. I've got bigger problems. Though I would like to see the look on that girl's face when she hears I've been in Juvie. I could use a laugh.

I walk into the bathroom, and turn on the water. The milk. The lasagna. I wonder what Jude is eating tonight. Are they feeding him? Is he hungry? He's always hungry, but I know he tries not to eat too much. He's never been allowed to eat as much as he wants. I try to give him some of my food, but now that I'm not there…

It's too much. The beating, the new house, the happy family, the thought of Jude—tears start streaming down my face and I turn up the water and press my hand to my mouth to muffle the sounds of my crying. I try to stop it but the tears keep coming, fast and hot, and my nose is running, and I know I only have seconds before they wonder why the sink has been running so long. I take a deep breath and stitch myself back together, pulling my emotions in, willing them to be replaced by indifference, boredom, hostility, anything. I look at myself in the mirror, hating my weakness, and briskly splash some water under my eyes to wipe away the tears. I take a deep breath and head back into the warmth of a kitchen that somehow makes me feel even colder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I have a long one tonight! Thank you so much for following and reviewing! Callie's mind is so interesting. I hope I can do her justice. Especially since it's time for her to meet Brandon, and I think her feelings would be quite complicated. When I was watching the bath tub scene, Callie just broke my heart, so that's tomorrow...Please continue to review, it makes me so happy. :)**

There's someone else in the kitchen now. A boy, maybe my age, maybe a year older, with black hair and green eyes and bone-structure that's kind of delicate. He's thin and wiry, and seems pretty harmless. Not energetic, like the other one, or snobby, like the girl.

He looks confused as I sit down.

"Who's this?" He asks, turning to his mother.

That rubs me the wrong way. I hate being talked about like I'm not here.

Lena explains I'm going to be staying with them for a while. He sort of pulls it together and just says "Nice to meet you," and slides a piece of lasagna on my plate. That's kind of nice, I guess.

"What about him?" I ask. "How'd you get him? The 99 cent store? I mean they have everything."

There. Let's see how he likes being talked about in the third person.

Everyone laughs a little. "Brandon is my partner Stefanie's biological son from a previous marriage," Lena tells me. I'm trying to work through that sentence in my head when a pretty, blond cop walks through the door. My senses go on high alert. But she doesn't even seem to notice me, she just says something like, "Oh, the lasagna smells great!" And then goes over and gives Lena…a kiss. Wait, seriously? I just stare at them until Jesus says, "What, no one told you our mom's a cop?"

I'm still not sure I understand.

"So…you're dykes," I clarify. The room goes silent.

"They prefer the term 'people,' he says half-hostile, half-patiently. "But yeah, they're gay."

I know I'm on dangerous ground, but I'm still trying to put together the pieces. I gesture to Brandon:

"And he's the real son."

It's deathly quiet now, and I'm regretting it. The words "Group Home" are flashing in my head like a neon sign. Stef just kind of laughs awkwardly, and asks "Who's this?"

Well, that's better than being hit.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I don't feel much like eating, and I don't really bother to try. There's only one way to learn the rules around here—fuck up until you see what you get into trouble for. They didn't bust me for having a smart mouth, which is pretty much a first. I thought maybe they'd yell over the wasted food, but they didn't even seem to notice. I'm in too much pain to eat. I'm pretty sure if I'd gotten anything down, it would have just hit my bruised stomach and come right back up. Instead, I just listen as they talk at me about rules. Curfew, school, permission…Whatever. I'm too tired for this. And like I said, there's only one real way to find out the rules in a foster home.

"Where do I sleep?" I interrupt Stef. I can tell immediately; she doesn't like that.

"Excuse me?" She asks, sort of fake-politely.

"It's not my first time in a foster home," I tell her.

Stef looks annoyed, but Lena doesn't take the bait.

"Let me show you," she says kindly.

I'm really starting to wonder if anyone is this nice. Experience tells me no. I wonder how long it will last. Apparently a while, because Lena's followed me into the living room, talking about pillows and blankets. Then she asks me if I have a toothbrush.

The sheer stupidity of that question shocks me. "No, I don't have a toothbrush. How would I have gotten a toothbrush?" I ask, not bothering to hide my contempt. I didn't exactly have time to stop at a CVS on my way out Juvie.

Lena just sort of exhales and sits down on the couch next to me.

"Okay, Callie? We're on your side. You can take it down a notch, okay?" She asks, looking me square in the eyes.

My cheeks flush and I look down. She's right. She's been nothing but nice to me, and all I've done is poke her and her family with a stick to see if they'll bite. And so far, they haven't.

"Yeah," I agree, quietly.

"I noticed you were really upset today when you were talking to David. Who's Jude?"

This takes me by surprise. I forgot she'd been listening to our conversation. Part of me wants to tell her. This nice woman who asked me if I want a second pillow and didn't yell at me for being about as rude as I possibly could be. Maybe, if I explain about the car, about Juvie, she won't want to get rid of me as fast. On instinct, I decide to go ahead and tell her.

"Listen…the night I went into Juvie—"

Stef comes into the room and I shut my mouth.

Stef does not like me. She is a cop. She would never believe me. And if she doesn't, I realize, neither will Lena.

So I shut up. Again.

Stef is talking to me about clothes, and towels, but my ears only really prick up when she says "bath." I haven't had a bath since…I can't even remember how long. Just 5-minute showers with double-locked doors and lots of yelling about the water bill. Stef leaves and Lena turns back to me expectantly:

"You were saying?"

All my resolve has gone. "I don't have a toothbrush," I mumble. Lena accepts that and gets up to find me one, and I lean back against the couch cushions. That was dumb. I've only known her for four hours, and I almost started to trust her. The last time I trusted someone in a foster home…

No. I don't want to think about that. I just have to remember: the only person I can trust is Jude. Everyone else is just noise.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't want to be here for more questions when Lena comes back, so I grab my towels and head for the bathroom, which is, thankfully, empty. I make sure the door is locked, and that no one can see through the keyhole, before I start to undress. There's a mirror in here. I wish there wasn't. I try to ignore it as I run the water for the bath, but when I stand up and catch sight of my body, I can't help but wince. I have a black eye, a split lip, and some mottled bruising on my cheek and forehead. My body is covered in purple patches. A particularly nasty one on my side reminds of the one I came into Juvie with; the one that Frank gave me. The thought of Frank brings me to my senses, and I rush to turn off the water before the tub fills very high. I don't know if these people would get angry about the water bill, but I don't really want to risk it.

I lower myself into the water, flinching slightly at the heat. It burns, but it soothes too. I lie down, letting it soak through my hair, feeling my hair fan out slightly around me.

I wonder if this is what my hair would do if I drowned.

I wash my hair and sit up, and the parts of my body not covered by the water break out in chills. I pull my knees close to my chest, for warmth, for comfort. I rock slightly back and forth.

My mom used to give me baths when I was little. Sometimes Jude and I would share a bath so we could use less water. She had this little red cup that she used to pour water over his head. I remember the way she put her hand above his eyes, like she was shading them so he could look for something. That way the soap never got in them.

He was 6 when we moved into our first foster home, and I taught him how to shower. But the soap got in his eyes a lot.

Something on the wall catches my eye and I turn to look. There are four small colorful stickers on the wall. They're cartoon creatures. Two smiling starfish, a sea horse, and the biggest one…a turtle. I know that turtle. It's on Jude's backpack. Skippy.

I reach out and trace it with my fingers.

Jude.

My eyes start to fill with tears again. I pull my knees tighter to my chest and rest my chin on my knees.

It's the closest thing I have to a hug.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I get out of the bathtub and dry off. I know what to do. I put on some clothes Stef gave me to sleep in and go downstairs. I know where it is. I saw it earlier. I walk quietly into the kitchen and stop. Mariana is there, fiddling with something. She puts it in a basket, and places the basket back on a high shelf. The basket rattles as she lifts it, and I've been around long enough that I'm pretty sure what it holds. She turns around and sees me standing there, arms crossed, watching her, and quickly says "I needed some water."

Right. Water. From the basket on the shelf. There's a good cover story.

She leaves the kitchen and I go and lift the basket down. Inside it is a mostly empty bottle of pills. I don't recognize the name, but it says on the label that it's for "Jesus Foster-Severe Attention Deficit Disorder." I almost want to laugh. I've been in this house five hours and I've already seen a skeleton in the family closet. I wonder if Jesus knows.

I put the bottle back in the basket, and the basket back on the shelf. It's not what I came here for.

I turn around and look at a different shelf on the other side of the kitchen. My heart sinks. The phone is gone. Only the empty cradle is left. I look around the room for it, but I know it could be anywhere. There's only one thing to do. I make my way upstairs as quietly as I can, sticking to the edges of the floorboards so that they won't creak. I'm lucky I've had so many years of learning to tread lightly. Well, kind of.

Everyone is in their room. Mariana's door is closed. She's probably on her phone, anyway. Jesus is playing video games with his headphones on, and I can't see his phone anywhere. That leaves Brandon. His door is open and he has on headphones that are plugged into a keyboard. A musician. Figures. I look around and my heart leaps. It's right on the nightstand by the door. Slowly I reach in and pluck the cellphone off the table, then turn around and head back down the hall. The floorboard creaks. I wince and hide the phone in the waistband of my pajamas, but no one is following. I go downstairs as fast as I dare and dial the number for Frank's house. I'm praying to every god I've ever heard of that he's not home.

"Hello?" Relief washes through me so fast that I want to cry.

"Hey, hey baby, it's me," I say quickly, knowing we have to keep this short. If Frank catches Jude talking to me…

"Callie?" Jude sounds so happy, I want to reach through the phone and hug him.

"Yeah, I'm out and I'm coming, I promise, Jude, I just got to figure out how to get there."

"Are you okay?" Jude asks.

"I'm fine, I'm okay, are you all right? Is he hurting you?"

"Not really. Just once when I dropped a dish. I'm okay, Callie. I miss you."

I think my heart is breaking.

"I miss you too, baby. I'm coming as soon as I can."

"Will you take me with you?"

"Yes. Pack your backpack okay?"

"I love you Callie."

"I love you too. I'll see you soon."

I hang up the phone. I'm so angry I want to hurl it through the window. He hurt him, again. And I wasn't there to stop it.

I don't care if it means being in prison for the rest of my life. I am going to get Jude out of there.

Tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Another long one! Hope you like it. Thank you to those who have reviewed so far, and to those who haven't, please do! **

I don't sleep. No matter what position I'm in, a bruise is always hitting the couch. And with each murmur of pain comes a vision of Jude—Jude in the dress, clutching his swelling cheek; Jude cowering in the corner, bits of broken plate on the ground. When I hear birds starting to chirp I duck into the bathroom and wash my face. I wish I could call Jude again, but I put Brandon's phone back last night. There's nothing to do now but come up with a plan to get to him.

It's more than ten miles to San Ysidro. I could walk it if I had to, but they'd figure out I'd left before I even got there. And I'd never arrive in fighting shape. I have no car, no money for a taxi, and no access to a bus schedule. Since that basically leaves sprouting wings, I'm feeling pretty well and truly screwed. But I have to get there. Jude's waiting for me.

Everyone is coming downstairs now. The kitchen is chaos, people talking, food being served, plates clinking. The plates just remind me of Jude, and the whole scene puts me in a worse mood than ever. I see coffee left in the pot on the counter and make a beeline for it. Everyone goes silent so fast it's almost funny. Apparently the Foster teenagers don't drink coffee.

I'm not a Foster. And I definitely drink coffee.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Everyone is talking on the way to school, but I'm not listening, and I don't have anything to say. I can feel my mouth getting drier, and I find myself rubbing the bottom of my sleeve between my thumb and forefinger. It's sort of soothing. The ride is short, and all too soon the car is slowing to a stop. I've done this before; Jude and I have been in 7 new schools, not counting Juvie, in the last 6 years, but it's never easy. And this time I have a bruised face. And I don't have Jude.

A warm breeze hits me as I get out of the car, and I just stare at my surroundings. I've never seen a school like this. The schools I've been to are basically cinder block and metal cages in concrete parking lots. These school buildings are white stucco with red tiled roofs. The whole school is lined by a sandy beach, and the wind is rustling the fronds of the palm trees. Kids are running into the ocean, surfboards under their arms. Girls in pink sweaters are talking to boys in khakis.

I'm going to Malibu Barbie Charter School.

Lena makes sure I have my class schedule and says something about my teacher being a lot of fun. I can't stop staring at the sky. It's unnaturally blue. She walks off and I turn to Brandon.

"You go to school _here_?"

"Yeah," Brandon shrugs off the question like it's no big deal. I don't know if he's embarrassed or just doesn't understand why I'm asking. "So…Your classroom is over there. You'll find it okay, right? I have like 20 minutes before class and I want to go practice for the music finals for my competition."

I nod, but as he walks off I immediately become aware of the glances and stares coming my way. I clutch my notebooks more tightly to my chest, wishing I could disappear. I know it looks desperate, but anything's better than this, so I call out to Brandon to wait, and follow him to the music room. He's playing a piece on the piano. Something he wrote himself. It's sort of light. Pretty. He says it's about the time his moms asked him if the twins could come and live with them. I don't really understand that. There are songs that are made to sound pretty, and songs that tell a story, but the ones that tell stories, well, _tell_ stories.

I finally give up and ask him, "How is it about that? It doesn't have any words." He begins to play each part for me. Each hand plays something different, a different person speaking, or a different part of the conversation. He talks me through the piece; as he speaks, as his moms speak, as the twins speak, and then his hands play the whole conversation, all of them speaking together. I can hear what he's talking about. The pieces do sound better together. It's nice, and I tell him so. He just says,

"There's still something missing."

I refuse to let myself wonder whether he's speaking metaphorically.

"Wait…your moms asked you if the twins could move in with you? Were you going to say no?" I can't believe they would actually ask him. And if they did, why would he say yes? He had two moms all to himself.

"Nah, I mean, I don't know—I guess I figured there was enough to go around," he says.

"Enough of what?" I ask, really curious now.

"Everything." He says it so simply, and I know what he means. He's not just talking about food, and space, and hot water. He means love. He means caring. How many children would recognize that, and offer it to other kids?

The door opens and a tall, pretty strawberry-blond comes in to the music room. She and Brandon kiss, knocking me straight out of my admiring reverie. Good, it's nice that his fire hydrant is marked. I don't ever want to go there again. His girlfriend, Talya takes me to our classroom. We have the same teacher, the "fun" guy Lena was taking about.

I guess he's fun. I don't know. He cracks jokes and stuff but they're mostly about the readings, which I haven't done. I think the book is about a man who turns into a bug. They keep saying "Metamorphosis." I wonder if that's really the name of the book, or just the fancy word they use for something changing into something else. I wonder what it would be like to wake up as a bug. I mean, you'd basically spend all day rooting through garbage to find food and trying to avoid getting stepped on, right? That has an unsettling familiarity. I guess there's a reason they say horrible things will "squash you like a bug." But they also say cockroaches can survive anything. I wonder if it's better to survive, knowing you're a cockroach, or to die knowing you're something a little less repellant.

"Did he participate in his own transformation? Did he will it? Did he want it to happen? Or was it something that happened _to_ him?" Timothy's words are buzzing lazily around my ears. I hear something clinking and look over to see a car key hanging from the belt of the boy at the next desk. I just have time to shout inside and to smile at the boy before I hear Timothy calling my name.

"Callie? I know you haven't read the material yet, but what would you do if you suddenly woke up and found yourself living a nightmare?"

The class turns their heads to look at me. I freeze. I can't believe he just asked me that. Has no one told my teachers that I'm a foster kid? Even if they haven't, do you think the new girl with the bruised face is the best person to ask about living a nightmare? Gee, Mr. Timothy, I don't know. When I woke up and found out my mother was dead I had to throw my clothes in a trash bag and leave the only home I'd ever known. Is that enough of a nightmare for you? Is that the proper protocol to follow when you find yourself in one?

Thank God, the bell is ringing. I seriously don't know if I would have left the room, cried, or punched him. Instead, I pick up my notebook and follow the kid with the car key down the hall. I've found my ticket to Jude, and I'm going to get it punched no matter what.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: **

**Someone made a very good point in their review that dialogue taken straight from the show can get a little boring. So I need an opinion poll...should I paraphrase more of the dialogue? Replace it with my own? Keep it the same? Cut some scenes? Any ideas are appreciated! I'm intentionally not changing the arc of the story in this piece, but I am going to be adding memories and embellishments from Callie's POV. Really, this story is all about what Callie is thinking and feeling. I am going to be writing a new piece soon though, that takes place post-finale. with Callie and...a certain evil someone Any interest? **

"Hey! Hey!" It comes out louder than I mean it to, but I keep running down the stairs until I catch him around the corner.

"Hi…what's your name?" I have to play this right. Boys want one thing, and I want another thing, and I have to play this right.

"Aiden," he replies, flashing a pearly white grin at me. The car boy has had braces.

"Aiden, right, it's nice to meet you." I smile and shake his hand.

"You new here?" He smiles back.

"Yeah. New girl." I can see my way in, and I go for it. My smile is stretched so wide I wonder if my lip is going to start bleeding again.

"Just moved here actually. I could really use someone to show me around…" I smile as attractively as I can. I do everything but bat my eyelashes at him, praying he's a sucker for a vulnerable, friendless new girl, even if I do have a broken face.

"That could be arranged," he's smiling really big now, and I'm turning cartwheels. I am so close.

"You have a car, right?" I ask him.

"Yep." He says it like he's clearly proud of it.

"Cool, um, well I was actually thinking about checking out San Ysidro this afternoon." I'm crossing my fingers so hard I think they might break.

"San Ysidro?" His expression changes. "Down by Tijuana?"

"Yeah! I hear it's cool there." I'm flirting so hard my self-esteem is shriveling like the Grinch's heart. I tell myself to stuff it.

"What are you, like, looking to party or something?" I can't read his voice now, and that makes me nervous. Have I actually just met the one boy who doesn't like a party girl? I have to do this carefully. I keep flirting but I try to backtrack a little.

"No," I say tentatively, "I just...I have someone I need to see there." I know the words are stupid the second they leave my mouth. I keep my smile big, but I could just kick myself. He thinks I'm using him to get to a boyfriend.

"Yeah…no thanks. Good luck." He turns away, and my heart falls as I watch my best chance at getting to Jude walk out the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I can only think of one thing left to do. Clearly if I'm going to get to Jude I have to throw my pride away with both hands. So I go outside and start to ask anybody I can find if there's a metro stop nearby. As I sit down at a picnic table two girls in cardigans take their trays and walk away before I can even finish the question.

Bitches.

I feel so defeated I want to just lean over and rest my forehead on the table, when Mariana plops down next to me.

"You going somewhere? Gotta meet your pimp?"

She is such a snot.

I narrow my eyes at her.

"What is your problem? Take too many of your brother's pills?"

That wipes the smile off her face. She looks at the ground.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna nark on you. I mean, your mom's a cop. That's gotta suck."

"I guess," she says noncommittally. "So, are you leaving?" That pulls me up. I didn't realize she'd overheard my question.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna nark on you," she says in a much kinder tone.

I relax a little.

"I just—I have some stuff I've got to take care of." It's the best explanation I can give her. "Sorry. It's better if you don't know. That way if your mom—moms start asking you questions…" She may be a snob, but I bet she's not entirely devoid of feelings or a conscience. She'd probably get her flowery panties in a bunch if she knew where I was going. And she'd definitely tell her moms.

To my surprise, she accepts that. The bell rings and I start to get up, but she stops me.

"If it were me?" she says knowingly, "I'd make sure to go out the back way. Lena's office looks out over the front entrance, and there's a bus stop three blocks from here." She smiles at me and walks away.

I stare after her in surprise. Why did she tell me that? I'm sure she's thrilled at the prospect of me going away and leaving her happy little family alone. But…could she genuinely be trying to help me? Have we developed some kind of bad-girl camaraderie?

I shove the thoughts aside. It doesn't matter. For whatever reason, she gave me what I needed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Thank you SO much for the reviews, they are really helpful. I tried to streamline the dialogue this time, although I did keep the conversation with Jude, because, really, didn't you want to know what was on the other end of her phone call? It was bugging me the whole time I watched the episode...**

**Anyway, after this chapter we're out of the dialogue-heavy parts and into the action. Stay with it. And please keep reviewing.**

I turn and head toward the back entrance, and almost immediately run into Lena giving a tour to some parents. I run through a whole list of curse words in my head as I smile at her and pretend to be examining my class schedule like I'm trying to figure out where to go next. I follow the wave of people headed to classes as the bell rings, and promptly cut around the other side of the school. My legs are jumping, wanting me to run all the way to the bus stop, but I've snuck out of enough schools to know that I have to walk normally so I don't attract attention. I see a trash can and promptly throw in my notebook, with all its useless doodles of men changing into bugs. I doubt I'll be coming back to this school.

I'm across the road and nearly home free when I hear someone coming up behind me. I don't look to see who it is, but then I hear his voice and I want to hit something because I know he's going to drag me back or sound the alarm and I am way too close to let that happen.

"So…where you going?" Brandon asks me.

I'm in no mood for a conversation. I swear if he tries to stop me I will lay him out and gag him with the strap of his own backpack.

He keeps hurrying to match my pace, trying to tell me that his cop mom will track me down.

"Ugh, could you just mind your own damn business?" I burst out.

I am sick to death of this; Jude is waiting and this stupid boy thinks that his cop mom is going to come after me and save the day. Idiot. No one comes after me. The ones who notice I'm gone just pack my bag and shove me out the door into Bill's custody when I get home.

"We're just trying to help you," he says, sounding wounded.

"Stop." I tell him, and he finally goes quiet, but he's still matching my fast pace. His phone vibrates and I think _good; maybe it's his girlfriend and he'll realize he has things to do that are more fun than following me. _But then he says, "Someone's been calling me from this number all day," and my heart jumps into my throat. He protests as I snatch the phone out of his hand, but I immediately forget that he's there.

"Hey, baby, it's me, what's going on?" I stop walking and clutch the phone to my ear.

"Callie, he found out about you," Jude's crying.

"What do you mean?"

"He's so mad, Callie!" My stomach hurts and my heart is pounding and a shower of ice falls around my brain.

"Jude, what are you saying?"

There's a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then I hear Frank's voice.

"Let me talk to Jude." My voice is so low I don't recognize it.

"Call here again, and you'll wish you'd never been born."

His voice is deadly.

"Put him back on the phone!" I say desperately.

The phone just disconnects in reply.

I try to call back but the busy single blares in my ear. I wince. He probably ripped it out of the wall. I feel sick. What if he's using it on Jude?

Brandon wants to know why I got a call on his phone, but I'm not really paying attention.

"I borrowed your phone last night." I'm tearing up again and I refuse to let him see it, so I thrust the phone at his chest and keep walking.

"So who was that? Was that, like, your boyfriend?" He asks.

"No!' I practically spit the word at him.

He keeps pestering me, until I finally stop and burst out,

"It's my brother." I'm seriously fighting back tears now. I take off, fighting the urge to run all the way to San Ysidro.

I can tell he wasn't expecting that, because he starts floundering for words.

"Let me call my mom!" He says, finally. That breaks into my thoughts.

"If you call your mom, she's going to look in the system and find all these complaints my foster father made against me," I tell him, fighting to stay calm. My voice is rising now, and I can't stop it, "You're gonna get me sent back to Juvie, and Jude is going to be stuck in that house!"

He's floundering for words again, and I don't have time to wait for him to process it, so I walk away. Brandon's footsteps stop and I think he's finally let it go and stopped chasing me. I'm halfway to the bus stop before I hear him running up behind me. He looks straight into my eyes.

"I'm coming with you."

I know I shouldn't let him. But I do. I don't have time to argue with him.

And maybe I can use him.


	12. Chapter 12

The bus hisses to a stop, and we get on, instantly hot under the heating vents and florescent lights. I'm suddenly glad Brandon's here because I don't have any money, and given the car boy disaster I'm seriously doubting my ability to have begged my way onto the bus. He pulls out a small wad of fives and tens and twenties. I stare at it until he fishes out a few singles and puts the rest back in his pocket. I've never had that much cash in my life.

The bus makes limited stops. We should be at San Ysidro in less than an hour and a half. But I think about Jude, and Frank's voice, and that heavy plastic phone, and I wonder if that will be soon enough. I wish I was religious. They say it helps in these kinds of situations. But all I can do is pray to a God I don't believe in that my little brother is all right.

Brandon and I sit next to each other in plastic seats. I stare out the windows, my eyes barely registering the blurring city streets. For a while I jiggle my leg up and down, trying to loosen some of my nervous energy, but after a while I realize I can't tire them out because the three of us might have to run. I stop immediately.

We stay silent most of the way there. After a while I realize that now that I've stopped shaking, our legs are touching. He probably doesn't even notice it, and I don't bother to pull away. I just stare at my lap, helplessly trying to push thoughts of Jude out of my head. The driver turns on some classical music and I look at Brandon.

"Wait, didn't you have that music thing tonight?"

He brushes off the question: "Oh, yeah, don't worry about it. There'll be others."

Guilt and worry crawl over my body like snakes. Stef and Lena might not care that I'm gone, but they'll definitely miss him if he's supposed to be at something with them. But there's nothing I can do about it now.

I look over at him. He's sitting quietly, not looking at me. I don't know what to say to him. Who is this boy, and why is he so willing to give up everything to help me?

He looks over at me. "So what happened? At the house?"

I swallow and look away.

He's been nice to me so far. If he decides I'm lying, or exaggerating, or gets freaked out by my having been in Juvie—well, after a day of being stared at and judged, that would be really hard to take. But he dropped everything to help me, even though he barely knows me from a bum on the street. I guess I owe him this.

The words are so hard to get out, though.

I take a deep breath and stare out the window.

"When my foster father caught my little brother trying on one of his ex-wives' dresses, he started beating the crap out of him."

Brandon looks shocked.

"Seriously? He hit him?"

"Yeah." I can't fully hide my contempt at his naiveté. I wonder what it must be like to be raised in a world where a kid getting hit is so shocking. It's like he's never even considered the idea that it's possible.

"I mean, he used to hit me all the time…but, you know, whatever," I say automatically. It's not like it hasn't happened a thousand times before.

"But when I saw him going after Jude…" the memory hits me again, and I have to stop and take a deep breath to try to push away the anger.

"Well, I tried to stop him. But he kicked me in the stomach. So I went outside, grabbed a baseball bat and beat the _hell_ out of his precious Trans Am."

The anger is taking over my body now. I feel stiff, rigid, like I might break or lash out if anybody touches me. I'm not even telling the story to Brandon any more. It's just pouring out, and my voice, my heart, feel dead.

"When the cops came, he told them that _I _went crazy, and that he was just defending himself. Nobody seemed to care very much about my side of the story."

Enough. That's enough. I swallow and look up at the ceiling. I will my body back under my control, my muscles to relax, my tears to drain before they can give me away. I don't have the time or energy for crying. I have a job to do. I have to save Jude. Brandon is looking straight at me now, but I can't read his expression. Concern? Disgust? Sympathy?

I don't look at him. It doesn't matter. I don't care what he thinks anyway.

Somewhere in a tiny corner of my brain, I notice that Brandon's leg is edging even closer against mine.

I hope I'm wrong.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: A big one. Hope you like it! I'll be starting a new post-finale story soon, so keep an eye out!**

The closer I get to Jude, the more time feels like it's slowing down. I'm actually twitching with anxiety now, and Brandon seems to notice, because he starts to take my hand in one of his, but I immediately jerk it away. I almost feel bad when I see the look on his face, but I don't know his motive. He's a sixteen-year-old boy, though, so I'm sure it can't be a good one.

The bus is stopping and I practically leap down the stairs, Brandon following behind me. I think I know where I am but it's completely dark now, and I have to make an effort to avoid the streetlights, just in case anyone in the neighborhood recognizes me. They probably wouldn't be too thrilled to have the crazy, property-destroying foster girl back. And if they saw me I'm sure they just couldn't want to call Frank to tell him.

I wonder if his phone is back on the hook now.

I wonder if there's blood on it.

I push that thought away. I think about getting Brandon to try anyway, to call and tell Jude to come outside and meet us, but I don't want to risk Jude getting caught on his way out. Better for me to wait until I can make sure the timing is right. And I don't know what shape he's in. He might not be able to leave the house without help.

I can see the house now. The ugly yellow curtains, the screen door, the brown yard. My breath catches as I try to signal Brandon.

"Wait here," I whisper.

He stays in the shadows as I walk slowly around the side of the house, ducking under the windows. The crickets are chirping loudly, and I'm hoping against hope that the crickets, and the wind, and the dog barking somewhere in the distance will help to cover the noise of my feet on the dry grass. I edge carefully up to the side door that's across the hallway from the kitchen. My whole body sags with relief as I see Jude, propped up on a step-stool, cleaning an enormous pot in the sink. He doesn't look hurt, but I won't know for sure until I see him up close.

Frank is nowhere to be seen. I tap softly on the door.

"Jude!" I whisper it as loudly as I can, my heart pounding. He doesn't turn around; the sound of the water against the pot must be too loud.

I don't have a choice. I go back to Brandon.

"Can you distract him?"

He nods.

I point to the front door and lift two fingers. He nods again. I have two minutes to get to the side door and signal Jude. I creep back to the glass door and start to unlock it when I hear Brandon's knock at the front door. Frank's shadow passes across the glass and I quickly flip my body back against the side of the house.

"Are you deaf?" Frank sneers at Jude.

Jude looks up but doesn't say anything. He just keeps rinsing the dishes.

My blood is boiling but I hold still and stay as silent as I can until I hear Frank opening the front door.

Brandon's asking him for directions to the metro. I want to kick him because Frank is not the type to lend a neighborly hand, but to my surprise it seems to be working, because Frank keeps talking as I slip through the glass door and pad slowly toward the kitchen.

I'm halfway there when Frank catches sight of me, and I freeze.

"HEY! What the hell are you doing?" Frank lumbers toward me and my blood runs cold.

Instinctively I hold my hands out in front of me, pleading for me, defending me.

"I just want to talk to Jude, just for a minute!"

"SHUT UP!" He barks, his finger extending in front of him like he wants to run it through my eye.

The sight of him bearing down on me is too much and I panic.

"Look, I'm sorry about your car, I promise I can pay for it—"

"GET OUT OF HERE!" He grabs me by the shoulders and I can feel waves of pain in the spots under his fingers as he starts to shake me. I can hear Brandon yelling at him, but all I can think about is Jude watching him hurt me, and I lose it.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I yell it as loud as I can. He releases me and I can't believe it worked until he reaches for the drawer in the hall table.

My eyes go wide as Frank pulls out a gun and turns it on Brandon, who stops yelling and takes a few steps back, gesturing with his hands as though he's trying to calm a wild animal.

"Jude, stay in the kitchen!" I say desperately, "Look, I'm sorry, I'm sorry about your car, I promise I can pay for it—"

Frank turns the gun on me and I'm frozen. All I can do is stare at the ground and pray that Jude doesn't see me get shot, that he has his eyes closed, that he stays out of the line of fire; pray that Frank doesn't hurt Brandon, who could die tonight because I've led him here.

I can't leave. I can't. Jude is in this house, and I can't let him stay here. I keep arguing, telling Frank I'm sorry, I'll pay for the car, anything, hoping that I can buy some time for Brandon to run, for Jude to hide.

"I swear to God, _sweetheart_, if you don't move when I say-!"

I hope he won't make Jude clean my blood off the floor.

The front door crashes open and someone starts yelling.

It's a cop! Frank won't shoot me now will he? Since they're here to arrest me? But then I think I'm seeing things because it's Stef, Stef in her uniform with her gun pulled out, and it's not pointing at me, it's pointing at Frank. She's yelling at him and I lunge for the kitchen and Jude, who's standing in the corner with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut so tightly he looks like he's trying to block out the world. I pull Jude close, wrapping his head in my arms, desperate to shield his body in case someone starts shooting. But there are no shots, just more yelling, so I pull back a tiny bit.

"Baby are you okay?"

Jude nods, and all I can do is rest my forehead on his as we break down and cry together.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Okay guys, almost at the end! Thank you to those who reviewed. It always makes my day. Starophie, it sounds like we like the same things about Callie! sbz, thanks for your kind words about the story. I had been hoping more people would like it, but I guess that's not to be.**

I cradle Jude's head against my chest, trying to make him believe that everything's okay, it's over, as the male cop takes Frank out of the house.

"Callie," someone says quietly. I jump and wrap my arms more tightly around Jude, but it's just Stef, and she has the saddest look in her eyes.

"Is this your brother?" She asks me.

I nod, but I don't let go. I know what's coming next. Bill will be here soon. If the cops don't come and take me first. And I'm not about to let Jude go until they literally pry him out of my arms. Not after this.

Stef crouches down a little and looks at Jude.

"What's your name?"

Jude looks at me, and I nod.

"Jude," he whispers, his voice small and stuffy from crying.

"Jude, where do you keep your clothes and things?"

Jude looks at me, his eyes wide. He knows what's coming next, too.

Wordlessly, I point to his bedroom. Jude hugs me so tightly my bruised ribs start to complain. I ignore them, and hug him more tightly too. I don't know how much time we have left.

Stef disappears into the other room and after a couple minutes comes out with Jude's backpack and a bag that probably contains both of our clothes, because it's too full just for Jude's. I'm surprised Frank didn't use mine to wash his car or something.

I guess it's because he didn't have one to wash.

Frank's in handcuffs. I saw him. And even if they let him go, he can't ever hurt Jude again. He probably won't get any foster kids placed with him again either. He wasn't supposed to have a gun in the house, much less pull it out with Jude around. I wonder how he'll pay for his beer without the government checks.

Stef is gesturing for us to follow her. I don't have much choice. We have to go some time, and I'm surprised she hasn't pulled her own gun on me yet for bringing her son into this situation.

Brandon. I can't believe I forgot.

"Um, Stef?"

She turns around and raises an eyebrow.

"Is Brandon okay?" Her lips clench a little before she sighs.

"He's fine, Callie. He's outside. Come on."

Reluctantly I step back from Jude, but keep my arm around him as we walk outside. Of all the ways I imagined tonight playing out, this definitely was not on the list. Three cops are pushing Frank into the back of a police car, weird sounds coming out of their walkie-talkies. Frank is glaring at me, and instinctively I place my hand on the back of Jude's head. He's twelve, but he looks so small clutching the straps of his little backpack. I can hear Brandon talking to Lena as Stef and I help Jude get situated in the middle of the back seat of their car. Brandon keeps saying he tried to do the right thing. He apologizes about the scholarship, and Lena stops him.

"That guy had a _gun_," she tells him.

So Lena was here the whole time. That must have been awful for her. Watching Stef, and the male cop who apparently is Brandon's father, storming into a house where her son was being held at gunpoint. She doesn't even seem to care about the scholarship. And I bet she could have used the money, too.

"Callie." Stef closes the car door, leaving Jude inside, and beckons me towards the front of the car. My heart is breaking at the thought of where she'll send me.

"I would like you to understand how this, tonight, could have ended very, very badly." She says it quietly, not yelling, but I can't even look at her. I _do_ understand. I probably understand better than she does. But I don't know how to explain that. I don't know how to explain the kind of danger Jude was in, or my desperation to get him out. I don't know how to explain that I didn't even know if I would find him dead or alive when I got to the house. I certainly can't explain why I didn't call her, not if I don't want her looking in the system. Although I guess that that doesn't matter now. No one in their right mind would keep me after this.


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay everyone, final chapter. Thanks for reading. I have a new story up called "Saving Callie." It's post finale. Make sure to take a look! I've been working really hard on it. :) Please continue to read and review; I love all your nice comments!**

I look at Jude, who's now talking to Brandon in the backseat of the car. Jude's actually smiling a little. I don't know how he does that.

I only have one Hail Mary pass left.

"Look, if you want to send me back to Juvie…" The thought makes me nauseous, but I make myself take a deep breath and look in her eyes; "then you just promise me that Jude will be somewhere safe."

I'm expecting her to sneer, or roll her eyes, or maybe, just maybe, nod her head, but she does something I never would have expected. She looks me square on, her eyes slightly shiny, and says "You're not disposable, Callie. You're not worthless."

_You're not disposable, Callie. You're not worthless._ The words echo around my brain and hit me like a shot in the heart.

Why would she say that? No one has ever said that to me before. When my mom died and my dad went to jail, the first thing the social workers did was have me and Jude throw all of our clothes into trash bags. And every time we switched foster homes, another trash bag, and another. We are society's garbage. The kids no one wants. I have been in homes where I'm not worth a five minute shower, or a can of soda, or a kind word. Anyone can tell you; an object is only worth something if someone wants it. I _am_ disposable. I _am _worthless, because no one wants me. But Jude is young, and sweet, and adorable. He doesn't have a record or a split lip. There is still hope for him. Someone might want him. I want him. He is not worthless.

But why would she say that to _me_?

My eyes tear up and I blink hard, my breath catching in my throat. I know she sees because she puts an arm around me, and for a brief, confusing, wonderful moment I think she's going to give me a hug. But she just guides me back to the car. I smile at Jude, trying to reassure him that everything is fine.

The car door across from me opens. Brandon's father leans in to talk to Brandon, who won't quite look at him.

"Hey. You know I'm gonna kill you if your mom doesn't kill you first," he says simply. He's not yelling either.

"Yeah," Brandon says to his lap.

"I love you B."

I bite the inside of my lip. I can't remember the last time a grown up told me they loved me. I wonder what it must be like to be Brandon, who had three different adults say those words to him on the same night.

I pull Jude tighter to me. He's the only person in the world who really loves me. I try to tell myself that it's enough. I don't need the adults who are looking so tenderly at Brandon. I have Jude. Jude is my family, my whole family. But I know how much he wants parents like these, and Brandon's parents' words must be stirring up something in him too.

Mike and Stef close the car doors and I'm alone in the backseat with Jude and Brandon. I look over at him, feeling guilty about the punishment he's going to get. I don't know what it will be. I doubt they'll hurt him. But I still owe him an apology.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "But, you know, you didn't have to come."

He just sort of nods to himself.

"Yes, I did."

He gives me a slight smile and I have no idea what to say. I look away, embarrassed. Mike, Stef and Lena are talking by the front of the car, but I have no idea what they're saying. Lena's just gotten off the phone, and I can only assume she was talking to Bill. Stef is gesturing and Lena looks uncertain, but Stef just pulls her close into a tight hug. They open the car doors and Lena climbs in to the passenger seat as Stef slips behind the steering wheel. She looks over at Lena and they smile at one another.

"Buckle up!" Stef calls to us as she turns the keys in the ignition.

I turn to Jude and help him find his seatbelt. As he's clicking it into place I look up and my eyes meet Brandon's. I can't help giving him a small smile. _Thank you_, I want to say. _Thank you for helping me keep him safe._ Because of him, Jude and I are safe in the backseat of this car, with a family that, so far, hasn't said anything about splitting us up. It's more than I could have hoped for.

No one says anything as the car glides through the streets. I keep my arm around Jude and watch as the streetlights rush past. I wonder how Stef and Lena found us. Did Mariana tell them I took a bus? Had they been driving around San Ysidro for hours, and happened to hear the shouting in the house we were in? Did Brandon text them and tell them where we were?

I decide to let it go.

We pull into the driveway of the Fosters' house and I'm surprised to see the twins getting up from the front steps, as though they've been waiting for us. I help Jude out of his seatbelt and grab the blue gym bag that holds our clothes. I keep my arm around his shoulders as we go up the front steps, not quite believing that someone isn't going to rip him away from me.

I want to tell him he's safe; I want to tell him it's over; but I don't really know if that's true.

So before we go inside, I just give him a quick kiss on the top of his head. At least he knows I'm here. And if we're still here tomorrow, I think I'll show him that swing.

**The End**


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